Monday, April 30, 2007

If you can do what this guy did, you never need to do another crit again to practice your handling skills.

He (Christian Adam) set a world record when he sat backwards on his bike and covered a distance of 37.5 miles in 5:08 hours while playing his violin. Where? On part of the St. Gallen highway in Switzerland that was not yet opened for traffic.

Time to crack out those musical instruments from high school and get training!

Friday, April 27, 2007

Right off the bat, I had to use the porta potty. Luckily, there was one just after exiting transition. I felt like I wasn’t going very fast. I stopped at all of the aid stations to make sure I got all the calories I could from their cups of Gatorade (the yummy yellow kind now, horray!) and part of a banana ever 3rd aid station.

The thought of eating another gel made me want to puke.

The course was 3 figure-8 loops, which I liked. It made it mentally easy to break it down, and I got to see my cheer squad. A lot. And eventually I got to see all of my friends, too, as I lapped them.

My mantra for the first loop? Just chill. Enjoy the scenery and sneaking up on my cheer squad. I don’t believe anything is cooler than deciding to do a crazy workout and having thousands of people around to help you do it. Strategically placed porta potties. Gatorade when you want it. Water. Food. Everything’s out there so you can get what you need and continue on your journey. When I would go for long runs in Phoenix, I’d have to wait until it was dark outside, so if I had to use the bathroom, I could hide in someone’s hedges and go. Or, I’d drive around, figure out which houses were under construction, had porta potties in the front yard, then wait until Sunday, when nobody would be working, to do my long run. No fun at all.

After completing the first loop, I decided my mantra for the second loop would be: Just chill. Yes, the same mantra. I figured I was at a pace I could hold, and considering I had never ever run more than 20 miles before, I wasn’t sure if I could ever push it and finish. Better play it safe.

My cheer squad was all over the place. Just after I crossed the bridge at Scottsdale Road, where I had to put my visor on backward since the wind was trying hard to knock it off my head and I didn’t want to loose it to the lake, I saw them. Cheering like maniacs. Then I saw them again under the Mill Avenue bridge. Then I saw them again on the North side of the bridge. And then I saw two of my friends walking together. They cheered for me.

Coachancé gave me a double “high 5!” and, here’s where biotch, well, um, “in the zone” TriDiva comes in. My thought at this point? Please, don’t let him run along side me. I will then realize how dreadfully slow I am going and be sad. Don’t let him jog beside me. Shoo!

Not a very kind thought toward the love of my life and the man who was currently carrying my ring for me in his Camelback so I could stick it on my bloated pinky as soon as I finished.

As the final loop approached, I became pretty euphoric. I AM going to be an Ironman. No doubt about it. And the coolest part? I’m going to do it before sunset just like I wanted. As long as I don’t walk.

All of that training, my cool coachancé me-specific training plans, all of those psycho runs in the Santa Monica mountains. Including that one time where I freaked out because I got dehydrated and got the freezies, but was instantly restored when I saw my coachancé cheering for me by the car as I finished. He has been cheering for me for months, and has cheered for me during every workout. I am so blessed, and all of those moments are culminating to this point, and I only have less than 9 miles left! I want to cry.

But first, I have to poo. Every time I’ve eaten a banana, I’ve gotten the most horrendous stomach cramps about 2 minutes afterward, fart a minute after that and feel better. But I don’t really want to eat anymore. I don’t want to wait in line for a porta-potty, but I can’t help it. There’s no way I’ll make it another mile without one.

For heaven’s sake! Get out of the porta-potty! I’m on a mission! Don’t mess this up for me people!

I’m in! I go to the bathroom, then I’m back out on the trail. (See the pissyness coming through?) I smile for the camera I’ve passed 2 times already. The biggest, most victorious smile I can muster.

Hey! There’s my Ironcheersquad again! They’re everywhere!

Apparently, my padre was surprised that I was still running. Well, duh! I wasn’t going to walk. I did train for this!

The little inspirational quotes on all of the mile markers came in handy now. “Pain is only weakness leaving the body.” Hell yea! And I don’t know if any of them actually said this, but I like “pain is only temporary”, and my other mantra (besides today’s “just chill”): “it’s supposed to hurt”. So no wussing out! Bring on the pain!

I was a little sad I’d never be coming back around this part of the run loop again. This was the last time I’d pass the aid station with the man with the loud speaker under the bridge. The last time I’d come over Scottsdale road and almost get blown into the lake.

All of the volunteers and other Ironcheerers kept saying, “Good pace! Keep it up!” which made me incredibly happy. Even if they said it to everyone, I was only concentrating on me now. Oh! There’s my cheer squad again! I’m too tired to smile. It takes too much of the energy I need to drive to my legs. Sorry.

A volunteer near mile 24 asks me if it’s my last lap, after saying, “Great pace!”

YES! I say.

“You’re going to finish early!”

Woo hoo! Whatever that means. But yes, I’m going to finish before sunset, darn it! Push it TriDiva, you’ve only got 2 miles to go! I haul as much bum as I can. The last 5 miles, I couldn’t eat anything at the aid stations. My stomach was sick of eating. And sick of processing everything. And probably wanted to cross the finish line more than my brain at this point.

Then I begin to cross the Mill Avenue bridge. This is it. It's all over. Unless I trip and fall on my face and break my entire body, I'm going to be an Ironman.

I kick it in. The crowd gathered around the chute is going wild for everyone. It is amazing. I hear coachancé and hairystomach screaming. This is it. I am done. It’s all over. I am an Ironman. I didn’t pause to take in the crowd. Oh, no. I sprinted down that chute. The girls at the end barely had enough time to grab ahold of the tape after the guy in front of me blew through it so I could get my finisher photo breaking the tape as well.

Oh crap! What am I gonna do to cross the finish line! Coachancé asked me about it before and told me I should think about it. I do a very generic, but empowering fists in the air pose as I run through the tape.

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

Apparently Coachancé thought I was going to hit everyone riding out of the narrow chute that led to the road at the start of the bike. I’m way cooler than that. It felt great to get on Stealth Pinky and ride (for some reason the hammies didn’t want to swim anymore).

We went out past the “hot corner” where all the spectators stood. I was flying with zero effort! I was invincible! It is an out and back course, and I made it out in less than an hour. Could it really be true—I might actually do the bike in 6 hours or less! I rule! Taper rocks!

But no. As much as I would like to believe my athletic prowess got me out on the course with lightening speed, there was also, you know, a massive tailwind. That then, in turn, became a massive head wind. That effortless 22mph average very quickly became an effort-ful 9-10mph.

OK, no problemo, I thought. I’ll gladly fight this headwind for the fun of flying back out on the course. Just stick with my nutrition plan and keep eating those electrolyte tablets and I would be a-ok.

Honestly, nothing is greater than getting to ride a century without any inkling of fear that I will be smashed, maimed, or otherwise murdered by an idiot controlling a massive amount of steel. Because riding centuries in Los Angeles? Super not cool. In fact, people die every year on the roads I ride on. And it’s not always because they got “in the zone” and weren’t paying attention. Those idiots with steel battle-cages drive too fast, and try to paint their nails, eat, talk on the phone, and veer into the very narrow shoulder reserved for fit, awesome people, and thereby rid the world of its more highly esteemed members, one at a time.

So no matter what, this 112 miles was going to be awesome. Headwind or not. Bring it on.

My Ironcheersquad positioned themselves close to the turn around in a very conspicuous area, and were ready for me as I flew by. Coachancé’s white board read: Just Keep Spinnin’…

Good plan.

I flew out on the course again. This time, I had to go potty. Thus began the great internal battle: to pee myself or not to pee myself. This is a long race, and running in my own pee for the rest of the day might not be worth the minute or so it’d take to stop at a porta-potty. But it’s also a source or pride to pee oneself in a race. No joke.

What to do, what to do…

OK, now it’s not just pee. I’m going to have to stop. There are porta potties at the turn around, I’ll stop there.

But no! They are all taken, and there’s no way in heck I’m waiting in line! I’m on a 6 hour pace here.

Turning toward the head wind again, I try to turn my thoughts toward spinnin’ and “just chillin’” and try not to think about the intestinal rage that is developing. Then, I concentrate my developing anger on the riders who are obviously riding in packs as they blow by me. Constantly. Aren’t they going to go in the “penalty tents”. Nope. Nada. But I will not join on the back of them. I will never get a drafting penalty. I can do this all on my own. I am the greatest, I am a machine.

I need to poo. I skip the “special needs” station, because I have discovered that I really don’t care what I’m drinking, and as long as I have water to trade off with sips of the disgusting orange Gatorade I have somehow acquired, I’ll be fine.

Next porta potty: 5 miles out. I can do this. I can do this.

YES! I get there and nobody is in line. A very kind volunteer takes my bike and I run inside.

Ahhhh. Relief.

Back on the bike. I am kicking ass! I rock! The headwind sucks, but I get to fly out again! This is the best day ever!

Again, my awesome Ironcheersquad is waiting for me. Well, kind of, I yell at them and then they turn in astonishment as I whiz by. Guess I came in earlier than expected. Because I am that cool. I go out on my third loop at 4 hours of riding.

By this point, my crotch is ready for me to run, even if I’d like to bike all day. I can’t stay in the aero position for too long. Like for more than 30 seconds. But I figure sitting up and making myself into a sail can’t hurt—it’ll only help the wind push me out faster.

So out I go, passing supporters and aid stations. I can’t believe the bike is almost over! All of my crazy lonely century rides and intervals and early mornings when I came home and couldn’t feel my body for 2 hours after the ride—all of that comes down to this. All of that training, and now I am a human sail. And hey! Some girl in my age group is passing me! That’s ok. I’ll get her in the run.

I round the turnabout at just under 5 hours. Freakin’ sweet!

Then something not so cool happens. The wind picks up (as if it could get any stronger). Whatever, I think. I’m almost done! I rock! I see the camera guy and make a big goofy smile. I’m 2/3 of the way to becoming an Ironman! Woo hoo!

Just keep spinnin’…just keep spinnin’…I’m going 9 mph…but there’s no point in pushing it now, because it’s almost time to run my first marathon. Don’t try too hard against the wind, or you won’t be able to run…(Thoughts from inside my head…but I’m sure you guessed that already.)

I come in significantly over 6 hours. Coachancé’s sign, witnessed just before the last half mile, reads: Wind Blows. I’m with stupid. With an arrow pointing to our friend, who flashes his hairy stomach at me. Nice.

Monday, April 23, 2007

TriDiva recounts IMAZ, one event at a time. Time to get your feet wet!

I suited up and headed toward the staging area. As soon as they let us get in the water, I jumped in. I was hell bent on starting in the front of everyone else, and didn’t care if I had to float for half an hour to do so.

Snippets of conversation from the water:

“If this starting buoy is black, is the buoy at the other end black, too? How the hell are we supposed to see that!?”

“I’m not counting on being first to the other buoy. Just follow these people and we’ll get there.”

Honestly, I couldn’t even see the end of the lake, so what did I care about the buoy color? What I did care about: the color of the female caps. They were dark blue. Whose brizilliant idea was that!? Our heads blended right in with the strange murkyness that is Tempe Town Lake. Not that I was planning on drowning, but if I went under, nobody would ever know.

The pros left 15 minutes ahead of us ordinary folk, then we all swam up to the imaginary line across the lake. I could see my coachancé's sign all the way on to the side—it was bright pink and said “Go Triathlete Diva!” on it, with a cartoon of a sexy triathlete, and a white board attached so he could change what it said along the way.

I felt great knowing coachancé and the rest of my cheer squad (my parents and 2 of coachancé and my friends) were all over there for me, and would be out there for me all day long. My dad, I found out later, was somehow able to pick me out in the washing machine that is an Ironman start, and walked along side me the entire swim.

The Start

Then it came. 10 seconds. The gun fired and I sprinted to try to get out ahead a little bit so I wouldn’t be trampled. That didn’t work so well. Everyone else sprinted too, and everyone else who had positioned themselves toward the front certainly did so because they were good swimmers. I freaked out. People were swimming on me. I knew this would happen, but the feeling of being dragged under combined with the knowledge that my little blue head wouldn’t be seen popping below the waves made me freak.

Then three most wonderful things happened:

1. I saw the camera crew filming me. Somebody was watching. Horray!

2. I remembered my Ironman friend’s only words of advice for the day: Just Chill. Very helpful indeed.

3. We passed a buoy and I was so close to it—whoever I was unintentionally following had dead-on sighting and that made me very excited.

Not until the first buoy (about a mile into it) at the end of the lake did the mass attempt at drowning fellow competitors die down. Now we could do all that stuff coaches tell you to do, like settle into a rhythm, pay attention to your stroke, monitor your breathing, etc…

I got all excited because even without the masses in front of me to follow, I still was dead-on in sighting the buoys. I don’t believe that has ever happened to me before. Ever. The last time I swam in this lake, a dude in a kayak bopped me on the head and told me I was going the wrong way. Embarrassing much? But today was my day. I was kicking butt, just as I had intended. (And by kicking butt, I mean trying to meet my goal of doing the swim in an hour. Not racing people.)

As I neared the last turn to head toward the giant “steps of aquatic accomplishment”, I couldn’t believe that that part of my Ironman was already over. I almost wanted to go slower so it wouldn’t be over so quickly. Almost. All those months in the pool. All of those crazy freezing 5 am workouts. All of those (well, ok, only 2) freaky death-defying ocean swims. All of that boiled down to this, and it was over! I almost wanted to cry. Heck, I almost wanted to cry before we all even got in the water because I was just so overwhelmed by the crowd and the positive energy and the support and love that my friends and family gave me through my journey-and all of that was about this day. It made me an emotional nutcase.

I reached the steps and very friendly volunteers were there to drag me out of the water. Then came quite possibly my favorite invention ever: the wetsuit stripper. I pulled my top off, sat my bum down on the ground and watched it fly! I have always stunk at taking my wetsuit off, so that was quite gratifying to watch it peel so nicely from my Tempe Town Lake- green body.

Running down the chute and into transition was awesome. There were so many people cheering everywhere. I felt like a rock star. Until I got to the transition, and my screaming out my number fell on deaf ears. WHERE THE HECK WAS MY BAG!!! Will nobody find it for me! I panicked as I looked at a sea of white bags. Which one had my helmet and new glasses and bike shoes in it? Heck if I knew.

Finally, a very nice man shoved it in my arms, and a bunch of other volunteers made sure I didn’t accidentally veer into the men’s change tent. Then somebody ripped my bag open, dumped the contents on the ground, put my number belt on me and helped me get everything else and I was off.

Then again. I shouted my number. Where was my bike! I knew where it was, and I almost got to it in my cleats before a very nice gentleman noticed me looking around and ran to get it for me.

Although those periods of waiting seemed like an eternity, but I only spent 4 minutes in transition, so all of that Tempe Town Lake water in my ears must’ve jacked up my perception of time…or something. It was a blast to have all of those awesome volunteers helping us do everything, though.

Friday, April 20, 2007

After completing an Ironman, you are compelled to spend just as much as the Ironman cost in the first place to buy all sorts of clothes that say "Finisher" on them so you can begin your life-long journey of bragging. But you can only wear those 2 t-shirts so many times in a row, and spandex trisuits aren't work-appropriate. So how do you brag on a daily basis about your super-human accomplishment without getting fired for wearing spandex or for smelling like BO from weeks on end of wearing the same thing?

You can get a TATTOO!

It's an idea every Ironman finisher must grapple with. To ink or not to ink? Maybe you want it as a personal reminder that you can accomplish anything you set your mind to, so you'll stick it somewhere not too obvious. Maybe you want to brag. A lot. So you 'll stick it on the back of your calf so all of those roadies you fly by on your training rides will know they're getting their butts kicked by a triathlete. Whatever your reason or desired position, here are a few neat tattoos people have gotten over the years.

Or you can go the route of TriDiva, and possibly order hundreds of fake tattoos so you can brag whenever you want without winding up with a dotted squiggly line on your arm when your skin starts to sag when you're 70 and your grandkids wonder why you got a worm tattooed on your bicep.

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

You don't have to be doing an Ironman to have a mantra that'll kick you into high gear and take your race to the next level. They're even super helpful in tough workouts.

So without further adoo, here are some mantras to get you going if you haven't already found one that works wonders for you. TriDiva will be using them at IMAZ on Sunday (for more information on what it is called when you conspicuously drop hints that you are doing an Ironman aka how to brag about doing an Ironman before you've actually done one, check out this article).

TriDiva's IMAZ Psych-Up Mantras!

TriDiva's personal favorite, which will certainly be used over and over on Sunday: “I’m the greatest! I’m a machine!”

Another helpful one: “It’s supposed to hurt.”

On the bike: “Spin to win!”

Swimming: “Sleek! Strong! Fast!” This is effortless! I am amazing!

Running: “I am so strong! So fast! So ready!”

Bring it on!

And of course, it has to be said it again, because TriDiva loves it so: “I’m the greatest! I’m a machine!”

Monday, April 9, 2007

Let me rephrase that. I love the actual swimming aspect, I hate the potential death by large fish swallowing / severing / suffocating / stinging / surfers –the 5 “s”s of ocean swimming modes of potential death. I do tell myself that if the surfers have been sitting there for a while, dangling themselves above the water at the big man eating fish below, and none of them have been eaten yet, why would that fish want me in particular? However, people fish off of the pier. They wouldn’t stand there all day if there was nothing to catch, would they? Not cool.

Before the ocean swim, Fiance took me to church. Easter really is the point of all religion as it gives us a sense of something more than life so we don’t live it scared poopless of dying.

Therefore, ocean swimming must be the anti-Easter, as it makes me, every second that I’m in there, scared poopless of dying. I had a nice one-sided conversation with God while I was in the ocean today that went something like this:

“I was not meant to die by a hungry fish attack a week before my Ironman, was I? Because that would be a really really mean joke. And I’d like to set the world record for world’s oldest woman---or just get to 100 years. So please tell me death by fish in one of the younger triathlon age groups is not in the cards for me. Thank you, I love you. Happy Easter, Love Me.”

Fiance started an "every three minutes, wait for me" schedule, which I appreciated. We swam out to the end of the pier, then north, then at 15 minutes, turned around to swim back at the pier. Fine. I saw fish underneath me. Not fine. And shadows. Then when we regrouped at the end of the pier.

I looked for the surfers so I could swim in a way to avoid getting bashed in the head by one like our friends had done last year. There were no surfers.

He swims closest to the ginormous man-eating animal, I swim next to him. All the way in.

Then on the beach: “That was a huge sea lion! I wasn’t going to say anything to creep you out. When you first said sea otter, I thought ‘Whatever, they don’t do anything,’ but that thing was way bigger than me.”

Thank you very much for keeping it inside until after we exited the deadly waters of the South Bay.

Another ocean swim accomplished alive. Another Easter calming me down, and letting me know that even if I do get swallowed by a big fish, I will not permanently reside in its belly.

Friday, April 6, 2007

That's right! They've put up with you all year. So why not make a resolution to take the time out from your psycho training and recognize the people who keep you happy and strong. Even if it's only for an hour before you lift tonight.

Here are just some of the many things your closest buds have done for you time and again. They deserve something for their efforts. A foot massage? A home-cooked meal? A trip to the mall? You decide. Just make sure it isn't something like, say, a partner stretching session or something sneakily tri-training related.

they nurse us when we're sick, even though they know we've been training through the sickness, and prolonging the phlegm and cough attacks. They still make us the extra vats of noodle soup and start buying Robitussin in bulk, though they know we've brought it on ourselves.

They cheer wildly at all of our races, and run around for up to 17 hours straight, trying to document our athletic feats and photograph us at different angles in every section of the event.

They console us when we get down about our day jobs cutting into valuable training time...even though we might have never even placed in our age group. They understand we're athletes at heart.

They watch us eat extraordinary amounts of food and control the urge to comment on our gluttony.

They recognize 4:30am as a viable time to wake up and don't mind the disturbance.

They hold us accountable and keep us on track to reach our goals. Through sickness, bad weather, moodiness, and hurt feelings, they push us to achieve what we never though possible and keep us mentally sane.

So hug your biggest fans and make today about them. Without them, we'd all be a lonely tri-geeks, wandering into work in spandex, rapidly loosing touch with the real world.

Thursday, April 5, 2007

Cliff Bar did a kick arse commercial about training for a triathlon--in particular the kicking, pulling, pushing, and general butt kicking that goes on in the beginning of the swim. Never before has this segment of the race been so perfectly demonstrated. If you haven't already seen this clip, check it out now! It'll make your day.

Wednesday, April 4, 2007

Beware of this guy! While many an athlete might hallucinate and believe they see Satan toward the end of their IM bike leg, it looks like that rascally devil really did come out for this race...to cheer?

Perhaps he'll feel right at home at IMAZ...let's pray it won't be that hot...

Tuesday, April 3, 2007

coachancé(e) - (n.) a coach who also happens to be your fiancé(e). This person might have been your coach first, then your fiancé, or vice versa. He/She is still referred to as a coachancé as opposed to a foach if the latter situation is true.

hoach / woach - (n.) related to the coachancé(e). A husband or wife who is also your coach.

The benefits of being engaged (or married) to your coach:

1. When you say "Not tonight, honey, I'm tired," he/she knows you mean it. You did work out for 9 hours. And because he/she created that killer 9 hour workout, he/she can be partly to blame for your complete exhaustion.

2. He/She knows if you skipped a workout, are eating too much chocolate cake, or are getting too much / too little rest and can adjust accordingly and on the fly. (As opposed to an e-coach, or one of those coaches who prints out your workouts per month and doesn't know your ITs have made your bum so sore you can't sit down.)

3. He/She can train with you. So you have a perma-fantastic training partner who is always there to encourage and push you. Plus you get to spend a lot of quality time together that work (or sleep in the rest of the population's case--they're not getting up at 4:30am to go swimming with their significant other!) otherwise takes away.

Yes, the coachancé (or foach/woach) is a marvelous thing. It is a relationship that has worked for many of the world's most accomplished triathletes (Barb Lindquist + hoach Loren; Michellie Jones + hoach Pete Colson...) It may just work for you.

But before you go off proposing to your coach this afternoon, make sure to think about other things as well. The bond of triathlon is strong, but it's important you both have your own lives and different personal interests as well. For example, if you like to read mystery novels in your spare time, and he/she has something completely different they like to do--like fishing-- you're probably well on your way to the romance of your life.

Monday, April 2, 2007

If you're like TriDiva, no matter how many times you swim in the ocean, it still scares the crap out of you. That shadow lurking just below you. AH! That slimy stuff you just put your hand in. And oh my goodness! You get so spread out from your friends. You know you look like the "weak" fish some big animal is going to have to taste for breakfast. You're not alone. And you're not the only one with a hyperactive ocean-swimming imagination:

Try not to freak yourself out. The chances of this happening, we've been told, are something around 1 in a billion. And the sharks are smarter in Australia.